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Winter's Coming. 



Gradual, slow, like the gathering haze, 

Is the subtle change from the summer days; — 

Leaves still whisper in forest ways, 

But the sheaves are gone from the meadow. 

Even yet there are flowers in bloom; — 
Restless tosses the aster's plume, 
Though October has sighed its doom, 

And the sheaves are gone from the meadow. 

Vainly, fondly, would we delay 
Every smile of the golden day. 
Roadside blossom and leafy spray, 

Yellow sheaves in the meadow. 

Tender tints may illume the skies; 
Richest odors may drift and rise. 
All the beauty of Paradise 
Cheat and flatter in summer's guise, 

Yet the sheaves are gone from the meadow. 



A Faithful Friend. 



Give me a frieud whose earnest heart is filled 

With honesty and truth ; whose steadfast trust 

Will never fail, by envious falsehood chilled, 

Nor be misled bj^ jealousies unjust. 

But few may find a tireless, faithful friend 

Tender and patient, open and sincere, 

Ready at call to help or to defend, 

And sympathize when foes revile and sneer. 

Though love may seem more beautiful and dear. 

Without sweet friendship it is light and brief; 

One is the vernal shining of the year. 

When hope and youth read bliss in every leaf. 

The other like the later riper day 

When grave experience binds her golden sheaf. 

O blest is he who hath one constant friend 

Whose tried truth changes not, but lives alway 

Keeping its loyaltj' unto the end ! 



Note— The name is revealed by reading the first letter of the 
first line in connectioa with the second letter of the second line, 
and so on through the stanza. 



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Looking Backward. 

[Acrostic Telestich] 

Go where we may, though far and long we roam, 
In northern snows, or sands of Africa, 
lyoyal to early ties, our thought will veer 
Back to the scenes beloved in infancy; 
Each favorite childish haunt, remembered well, 
Rises to mind, by memory's rosy hue 
Transfigured bright; above no land or sea 
Arch skies so fair as those we used to lo^e; 
Violets and roses are no more the same; 
Even the thrush no longer sings as then; 
Reality is chill, because, alas, 
Youth lends not now its glamour of delight. 
To all that meets the eager eye and ear. 
Retrace again, O memory, at our plea, 
All the glad signs in youth's bright zodiac. 
Charm still the hearts which in the dull today 
Yearn for the warmth and light of other years ! 



Midsummer Heat in April- -I896. 



Midsummer heat ere yet the dawn of May ! 

April, forgetful that her name is spring, 

Rivals the fervor of an August day; 

Yet thick with hard brown buds the branches swing, 

Leafless, despite the ardor of the sun; 

Eager and strong, each germ of promise swells, 

And where, two days ago, I found not one 

Vestige of coming bloom, the white heart's bells 

Edge the bare boulders with their delicate grace; 

Near by the saxifrage, poor patient plant, 

Seams with its milk-white flowers the clifi''s rude face, 

Transfiguring the frowning adamant. 

Return, O countless crowds of murmuring leaves. 

And bring rejoicing birds to charm and cheer; 

Comfort our dearth, and to the heart that grieves 

Yield the sweet solace of the opening year. 



Nightfall in Winter. 



Gray shadows drape the heavens, fold on fold; 
In densest clouds the sun conceals his light; 
lyoud sweeps the wind, two edged with frosty cold, 
Blinding the window panes ere shut of night. 
;Even the early lamps of yonder town 
Refuse to shine, but with a nebulous glow 
Too faint for cheer, as the wild night shuts down, 
And all the air is full of whirling snow. 
Vainly the eye would trace the beaten road, 
Even the river, once so glad and bright, 
Runs silent, underneath its deadening load; 
Yet does it flow though hidden from our sight; 
This thought shall help us, when the bitter gale 
Raves round the windows of our fire-lit room. 
And dumb and desolate lie wood and vale; 
Courage ! for earth shall wake to song and bloom, 
Youthful and joj^ous, from its winter tomb ! 



A New Year's Greeting. 



I 
Greeting for this new age ! A little late — 

I had so many trifling things to do; 
Life drives us all at such a headlong rate, 

Bringing each day some work or burden new, 
Else old hard duties to be done again. 

Repeated till we falter at the task, 
Tired of the evermore-recurring strain, 

And, half disheartened, pause awhile, to ask 
' Verily, wherefore all this toil in vain ? ' ' 

Even I, as dull and humdrum as I seem, 
Rebel sometimes, and call it useless pain; 

Yet when the orchards wake, and May's warm beam 
Turns their gray boughs to pink, — or when their fruit 

Ripens to red and gold, my thought will be 
' Ah, after all, life's charms are past dispute, — 

Can I forget, whatever Fate's decree. 
Yonder an apple-tree is named for me ? ' ' 



II 

Good comradeship could never farther go; 

I reckon it my happiest compliment; 
Ladies whose hair is growing- gray, you know, 

But rarely win one, save by accident. 
Each year hereafter, when the spring comes round. 

Radiant with promise, you will think of me. 
Though I be distant far, or under ground, — 

And link my memorj- with the apple-tree. 
Vainly I might have sought a sweeter way. 

Even could I have named my choice, to be 
Remembered by my friend of many a day; 

You could not grant a dearer gift to me; 
Truly, I thank you; may your own life be 

Richer and happier with every spring, 
And may this brightly-dawning century 

Crown you with joy, and grant you everything 
You may desire, of all that life can bring ! 
January i, 1901. 



(The following poetical note accompanied 
a gift to Mrs. Tracy.) 
Dear Mrs. Tracy — 

With this note I send 

A trifling gift, — a grateful memory- proof 

From one who found the welcome of a friend 

Beneath your kindly roof;— 
An easy chair, — the pattern I like best; 

Hoping that often, after set of sun, 
At the cool hour, you'll sit in it and rest, 
When the last chore is done. 

E1.IZABETH Akers 
July, 1897. 



Why? 



When, ere the age of paper mills, 
The ancients wrote their notes and bills 
And duns and letters and receipts 
On roughly-pressed papyrus sheets 
Made from the tall cyperus reeds 
Which flourish where the Nile recedes, 
How stupid were their minds and dark ! 
Why didn 't they think of white-birch bark ? 



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